Journals of Horror: Found Fiction Read online

  "You are taking it all," another mobster declared, standing and slamming his hands down on the conference room table. It was Sammy Accardo, another old school thug who was closing in on seventy. Accardo ran the Jersey family. "We were here long before you freaks crawled out of the dirt. And we are willing to fight for what is ours."

  "Sammy, is that any way to start off a pleasant business meeting? Can't we at least act civil? Pretend we are all gentlemen?" Johnny said, in a mock tone of disappointment. "I hear your daughter, Sarah, is getting married. Congratulations. I have a wedding gift for you to take when you leave."

  "I'm not interested in gifts or veiled threats, Stücke," Sammy continued, standing over his colleagues, twelve in all (an even number of seasoned made men and young turks), who watched on in a reserved and interested quiet. "We can barely feed our families out there. We are tangling with shifters, fangs and dead meat everywhere. Now, you say you want us to coexist with you? Then pick a side. Us or the monsters."

  "I want thirty percent of everything you have going," Johnny proposed. "Drugs. Anything off the back of trucks. Prostitution. Thirty percent and I will help you keep the monsters at bay."

  "That is a big bite," Sammy said. "And for what? The privilege of starving?"

  "You know, mafia ranks very low on the spook totem these days," Johnny said. "You are the least scary thing out there. You are lucky I don't squash you completely. I would, at the least provocation, but I feel I can learn from you and your organizations. I have studied your history. You always find ways to pan the gold from the water. Improvise. Find something that will make us all fat. But I get my cut and that price of doing business is thirty percent."

  "What about pornography?" Sammy said. "We used to wet our beaks in that, too. But you been hogging that up for yourself."

  Johnny nodded. "That is where my main passion lies. True. And there is no give there. You aren't getting any of that action. So come to terms with it."

  "It's a big loss for us," Sammy replied, finally dropping back to his seat.

  "I can think of much bigger losses you could take," Johnny said, with a raw grin.

  "Don't think we are afraid of a war," Sammy said, heating up.

  "Wars are unproductive," Johnny said. "And the casualties are hard to live with. You got Sarah. I got a daughter now. Wars get innocent people killed. We all need to think of our families."

  "There it is again," Sammy said, and he looked ready to explode. "The threats. Yeah, I got a daughter. But don't compare her to that retard orphan you took in."

  There was a hush that immediately followed Sammy's words. Apprehension suddenly stank up the room. Johnny left his chair and strolled slowly toward Sammy. Johnny settled next to the belligerent looking man, who glowered unapologetically at his monstrous host.

  Johnny clamped his big hand over Sammy's head. Frightened eyes peeked from between Johnny's fingers. He knelt down to Sammy's ear. "I am going to pay a visit to your daughter on her wedding night," he whispered. And then he crushed Sammy Accardo's head like a ripe melon.

  Gore, brains and thick strings of bloodied greasy black hair splashed the men sitting closest to Sammy. When Johnny removed his hand, the mobster's head was gone. A gunshot blast from that range would have done less damage. Someone gagged loudly. Johnny wiped his hand with a dinner cloth and politely covered the remains.

  "I have a thick skin. But you don't attack my family that way," Johnny said to the rest of the men.

  "He was out of line, Mr. Stücke," Joseph Caci finally said. "He had no right to speak to you that way. Especially in your home."

  "Very disrespectful," another man chimed in.

  "Anyone have a problem with what happened here?" Johnny said, his old eyes sweeping the room.

  Glass and his men stood motionless and continued to watch in gritty indifference. Accardo's peers were silent. If there were any grievances, the men were too petrified to air them.

  "I don't expect an answer tonight," Johnny said, striding back to his seat and taking it calmly. "I'll give you forty-eight hours to get your crews on board. Gentlemen, I assure you that your cooperation and loyalty in this matter will yield gains for us all."

  Johnny picked up a champagne glass and toasted his guests. "Salute."

  Before the men could lift their glasses, the conference room door ripped open.

  A group of vampires stepped into the conference room. Their gray faces stared at the proceedings menacingly. Johnny counted fourteen leeches and there was an even balance of male and female vamps. Their mouths and chins were wet with the blood of Johnny's security. Behind them, an old gypsy woman leered at Johnny with one good eye- an evil eye, actually. The gypsy smelled human and the vamps seemed to be protecting her, which was unusual. The Night Things hated gypsies.

  Everyone in the room, save Johnny, pulled a weapon. Glass and his men immediately fell back toward their boss. The mafia guests pointed their guns between Johnny and the vamps. The mobsters loudly demanded an explanation.

  Johnny ignored his invited guests and focused on the Night Things who had crashed his party. "How the fuck did you leeches get in here?"

  "We found the dummy owner you thought we never would and tortured an invitation out of him," a tall and lean vamp with blonde hair that seemed to be the leader of the undead band explained. He smiled widely, resembling a mutant clown, and stretched his fangs at Johnny. "The master sends his regards."

  "You boys packing silver?" Johnny asked of Joseph Caci.

  "Have to these days," Joseph said, pointing his weapon at the lead vamp. His men mimicked his aim.

  The vampires charged without warning. Two of the vampires fell as the mobsters in the room shot wildly into the undead crowd. Johnny kept his eyes on the old gypsy, whose lips moved silently. She recited an incantation.

  Just as Johnny was about to warn about the words on her lips, a funnel cloud appeared in the air in front of the woman. The dark mass, at least ten feet high and wide, spun toward him. Its numerous fangs snapped in the air and large red eyes leered evilly from the center of it. The demon split the middle of the massive conference room table as it sped at Johnny. A few vampires and mobsters were sucked into it and spit back out in piles of mangled flesh and bone.

  "Look out!" Johnny said to his men. He pushed Glass aside, who was firing madly at the demonic cloud, and Johnny punched the thing.

  His fist made solid contact and it startled back. The red eyes in the wind flinched and fluttered. Then they cleared and grew angry. All of the fanged mouths howled, and Johnny feared their angry song would shatter the bulletproof windows of the conference room.

  He swung again. This time, the beast caught his arm. It lifted the huge man and smashed him into the wall length window. The glass cracked and scars stretched across the pane. Johnny tried to free his arm, but the demon picked him up and sent him into the window again. The glass began to bulge outward and Johnny felt as if a thousand teeth devoured his arm.

  Johnny brought his other arm around and punched the thing again. It released him and backed off. Johnny had no time to appraise his injured arm, which was barely there.

  One of his men shot silver into the demon cloud. It screeched, then snatched him into its center. Johnny watched as his man- Leonard, he believed his name had been- churned inside and was reduced to a red-stained skeleton. The thing spit the remains of Leonard at Johnny.

  It hesitated before attacking again and Johnny prepared himself. He reached down and snapped off Leonard's femur bone and raised it into the air.

  "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's finish this!" Johnny challenged.

  The demon sprang at him and then suddenly dissipated into the air, revealing the old gypsy woman behind it. Her good eye was wide in pain and surprise. Her hands gnarled and reached over her shoulders. She fell forward, and Victor stood behind her. He held onto the large butcher knife in her back as she went down. He then rushed to his master.

  Johnny realized that the creature must have been ex
iled to wherever it had come upon the death of the gypsy. He looked around, and saw only Glass and one more of his crew alive. They pointed their weapons at the grizzly remains of men and vamps on the conference room floor.

  "You okay?" Glass asked, as more security piled into the room.

  "Yeah, relatively speaking," Johnny said, as Victor lingered near him.

  "I want security quadrupled," he said to Glass. "Get on the horn and send Sheila to a different safe house. Preferably somewhere out of the country. Find out who is next in line to hold the building title and get a lawyer on it before morning. We have to revoke that God damn invitation. Put silver clips and holy water pistols on every man we have."

  Johnny pointed to the security camera. "Take the footage and download it to my computer. I want to see if we can translate the Gypsy's spell. Might be able to make use of a monster like that one day."

  Johnny pulled a cigar from his jacket. Glass lit it.

  "Boss, your arm is fucked," Glass whispered.

  Johnny glanced down. There was barely any muscle left on it. The bone that showed had several gnaw marks. "Get my doctor here pronto. Tell him to bring a left arm from the freeze."

  Johnny glanced around at the pieces of mobsters strewn across the room. "Tell him to salvage what he can in here. Waste not, want not."

  Glass delegated to one of the men and turned back to Johnny. "Who were they working for? Who is their master?"

  "If it is who I think it is, we are going to have an all out war on our hands," Johnny said, sucking on his cigar. "And this little bloodbath sure as shit won't endear us to the mafia. But fuck them. They are the least of our problems."

  Johnny walked to the conference room entrance, remembered something, and turned back to Glass.

  "Oh, and one more thing. Find out where Sarah Accardo is spending her wedding night."

  Available March 18th, 2016

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  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION:

  BAGGED, TAGGED & BURIED

  by Terry M. West

  TURN ME ON, DEAD MAN

  By Robin Dover

  TRUANT

  By D.S. Ullery

  The Book of Flesh and Blood

  By Jeff O’Brien

  Beyond Castle Frankenstein

  By Paula Cappa

  Dying Scrawl

  By DJ Tyrer

  Girl in the Woods

  By Evan Purcell

  Going Home

  By Michael McGlade

  Hamburger Lady

  By Darryl Dawson

  HOLE

  By Joseph Ramshaw

  HUMAN RESOURCES

  By Todd Keisling

  IN THE WOODS, WE WAIT

  By Matt Hayward

  “Killing Jessica”

  By Glenn Rolfe

  Letter to Grandma

  By Crystal Leflar

  LOOK UP

  By Michael Seese

  Lucca

  By John Ledger

  Night Terrors: Journal

  By Michael Thomas-Knight

  FINDERS KEEPERS

  By Paul D. Marks

  The Anniversary

  By Sonja Thomas

  The Breath Within The Darkness

  By Essel Pratt

  The Devil’s Irony

  By Lori R. Lopez

  THE NOTE

  By P. D. Cacek

  THE SEAHORSE SPEAKS

  By Erik Gustafson

  Vermilion

  A Traveler’s Account

  By Stuart Keane

  WHISPERS ON THE WIND

  By Robert McGough

  There's something in my house

  By Wesley Thomas

  Tweets of Terror

  By Robert Holt

  Self-Consumed

  By Terry M. West & Regina West

  Note-To-Self

  By Christopher Alan Broadstone

  INTRODUCTION:

  BAGGED, TAGGED & BURIED

  by Terry M. West

  From the desk of Jason Bowman, special cold case liaison for the FBI. Addressed to Tony McCasland, black file specialist and unofficial department head of project SIDEBOARD, a secret division of The Vault. Dated November 1st.

  Dear Tony,

  There is no easy way to put this. Your department is being shut down effective January 15th. Since the SIDEBOARD had no official supervisor, I have been told that it falls under my jurisdiction. I am actually glad I was chosen for this grim chore, because of our long friendship. There will be layoffs, unfortunately, but I am trying to find a place for you here with me. The new director has had issues with the black files (SIDEBOARD) department for years. She sees it as a distraction to agents and non-essential personnel alike. "Freak show" were her words, actually. The director has long held the belief that the black files are all fictitious, created by hoaxers looking for a tablespoon of infamy or our own people constructing macabre puzzles for rookies. The black files have long evaded declassification, since they are deemed too disturbing for public consumption. But these days, secrets are a rarity and the director has managed to rally a few supporters in the upper brass. All evidence, old and new, is to be bagged, tagged and buried deep. Any new black file that slaps our desk is to be considered not only cold, but dead, and buried as well.

  I did, however, remind the director that protocol demands that all of the evidence in your department be transcribed electronically, to the main database. She fought me, but I won. The majority of your files have undeniable links to disappearances and strange homicides. She can suppress the black files all that she wants, but I will not allow this evidence to be erased or destroyed. I can fight her on that. Of course, clearance to access these files will be high. Very high. Gone are the days when an academy graduate was given a dark tour in SIDEBOARD as an initiation to the bureau.

  All of the contents of department SIDEBOARD are to be scanned and transcribed from original sources with new case file numbers designated BF. These files are to be encrypted and absorbed into the cold case department, under my authority and responsibility, and they are to be given the highest security. I will do my damnedest to put this new secret addition to my department under you. I know this is your baby and has been for longer than most of us have been with the bureau. Just give me a bit to work some magic, my friend.

  Transcription needs to begin immediately. Hire people, if need be. Let the director be held accountable for the cost. This will be a good lesson for her.

  Bear in mind that whoever you hire to transcribe these journals needs to be forewarned. You know how jarring the black files are the first time you encounter them. Be sure to tell any applicants that a psychiatric exam is mandatory as a piece of debriefing. We don't need another Ashley Johnstone situation. Her suicide nearly tore your department apart.

  I don't mean to tell you your job and explain the procedure that I am sure you are well acquainted with. But I have to cover my ass, Tony. You know that. Anyway, I am sure I will be seeing you soon with the holidays approaching. Take care and don't hesitate to contact me with any questions/concerns. Give Trish and the kids my love.

  Jason Bowman

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Cold Case Initiative

  Washington, DC

  Reply from the desk of Tony McCasland, dated November 3rd:

  Hello Jason,

  I appreciate your candor. To be honest, I have long suspected our new director's distaste for my position. She sees me as quite the barker, no doubt. I have championed this cause for a very long time and I have always feared the dark cloud that has been perched over me for much of my career. It's a relief, actually. And that my work is being absorbed into your department at least gives it legitimacy.

  As far as hiring someone, I have brought aboard a kid by the name of Alex Nash. He is a data entry machine. Alex has no personal interest in these files. He simply pursues a paycheck and he is faster than most of his peers. Still, I will insist on an evaluation before we swat
him on the ass and send him back out into the world.

  It has been a long time since we spoke on a personal level, so I guess you weren't aware that Trish and I are divorced. It was just one of those things, you know. We hadn't been happy in a very long time and with the kids in college we decided it was time to quit fooling ourselves. Trust me, it is for the best.

  I am trying to keep my office associates calm over the current situation. They all felt it coming, though. Maybe I am not that good at hiding distress. Anyway, it is what it is, they are all capable people and I will try not to have too much survivor's guilt if you are able to bring me to your department. I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you are doing for me, Jason. You are a good friend.

  I have started a microbrewery in my garage. I make one hell of a Stout. I don't care much for Stouts, but my friends tell me the ones I make are the best. If memory serves, you are a fan of Stout beer. Let's have a drink together soon.

  Tony McCasland

  Federal Bureau of Investigation

  Special Information Supervisor

  Washington, DC